


take comfort, baby

by murphysarc



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Mild Language, Mind Reading, i mean except for the mind reading part, murphy can read minds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 19:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10393974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murphysarc/pseuds/murphysarc
Summary: murphy has always been able to read minds. nobody else needs to know that.keeps with canon events until 4x06. a sort of character study, perhaps. murphamy.title from “this means war" by marianas trench.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is my 50th work on this site wowee
> 
> to avoid confusion - any italicized writing in this fic is a character's thoughts that murphy is hearing

**I.**

The people of Old Earth had several theories about the effects of radiation on the human body. Some theorized that it would cause flesh to slowly weaken, much like a cancer, while others believed that the body could take on the radiation and grow stronger from it.

A select few went so far as to say that human flesh would melt into a small, clear puddle. Strange as this sounds, Murphy knows that it’s true - a series of documentaries about wicked witches were published with this very concept.

Old Earth claimed they didn’t understand radiation, but maybe, some of them weren’t all that far off. They had to be somewhat right - otherwise, Murphy doesn’t have an explanation. He doesn’t have a way of rationing how he - well, how he exists at all.

**II.**

_I didn’t want him._

This is the first time it happens.

He’s in his mother’s arms, barely a toddler, barely old enough to be considered a person on the Ark. English only comes to him in fragments, most words hovering just inches out of his tiny, frail fist, and yet -

A sweet, smooth, honey-dew woman’s voice floats into his mind. John doesn’t notice it at first. The words, however, demand his attention, hovering in and around his mind, pushing themselves deep into crevices that he won’t find for years and years to come.

It is now that honey becomes too sickly sweet for him to stomach.

Only seconds before, a nice old woman from down the hall said to John’s mother, “Oh, he’s so adorable! You must feel so blessed.”

 _I didn’t want him_. The words softly attack him, so soft that his guard is down.

“So blessed,” his mother repeats. If John was only a few years wiser, he would have recognized the emptiness in her voice.

**III.**

It doesn’t happen again for years, so much so that he begins to forget what it feels like - of course, it is not as if he remembers what it is he knows he’s forgotten. This is the punishment of blissful youth.

John meets John in the poor hallway. All hallways on the Ark look the same, but still, separatism and societal norms will always cause like-minded and like-abled people to group together.

“Hi,” the unfamiliar kid says, seconds after accidentally running into John. “I’ve seen you before.”

_I hope he doesn’t think I’m weird._

The words are not soft and tricky and sticky, instead, they hit him like a missile, ripping a hole in the dead center of his brain and leaving as fast as it came. They are forceful, honest, pure, untainted, everything John hopes to be.

“I don’t think you’re weird,” John replies, though he’s not sure why the boy thought it necessary to say that.

The boy’s eyes open wide. “I, um. I have to go?” _Now he definitely thinks you’re weird. Great job._ With a quick turn, he’s already making his way down the hallway. John can barely recover from a second assault of words.

“Wait!” he calls. “I didn’t even get your name?”

A smile that could sink ships meets him. “John Mbege.” And then, he is gone.

**IV.**

It begins to happen more.

John’s limited view of the world causes him to believe that everyone experiences life this way, with words in all different shapes and sizes and voices ricocheting inside their minds. He does learn, very quickly, that everyone’s words are unique to them, but only some of their words sound this way.

He wonders what his own sound like. He hopes they are nice.

“Mom,” he asks one day, “What was the first thing you used your words to say to me?”

She doesn’t look over, but that’s nothing new. “I don’t remember,” she says. _How would I know?_ The sticky honey begins to wrap around his mind, clouding his concentration. It’s a fog that he’s never been able to lift.

John doesn’t give up here. “I remember the feeling that I got, but I don’t remember the words. What were they?”

She doesn’t respond, but that’s fine. John’s dad always says that’s just how she shows love. It doesn’t matter, anyways - her words do all the talking. _This kid is going to be the end of me._

“Why would you say that?” he says, his voice tiny, his voice small, his voice quivering because maybe his words are just too small for anyone to notice -

“I didn’t say anything,” his mom replies, “so maybe you shouldn’t say anything either. You don’t want people to think you’re insane, do you?” _With my luck, I bet they already do._

He doesn’t reply. He’s told this is how people show love.

**V.**

The words come too soon, too fast, too -

He doesn’t know where one ends and one begins -

It’s like, as soon as one stops, another one picks up -

What is silence -

He is never alone -

His mind can’t take it -

_When will he notice me_

_Why can’t I see the ground again_

_Just float me already I’m done I’m done I’m done done done_

He gets overworked. He gets sick. But he is not sick with the flu. But how, how does one tell a doctor that honey is poisoning them?

**VI.**

It gets worse before it gets better, in the sense that it never gets better.

The symptoms get worse and the voices get louder. In the process of filtering, of learning to pick out the words he wants to hear, in learning that he is the only one who this happens to, his father vanishes.

“I can’t let you die, John,” his father whispers. This night is fairly quiet. The voices are leaving him alone, for the most part, or maybe John is just better and controlling his ability.

 _I don’t want to be left alone_.

His father’s words are cool, calm, and chilled, floating into John’s mind and cutting out the rest of the noise. They, too, sink into his mind, but they do not stick in the crevices like - like honey, say.

**VII.**

It’s mind-reading.

John Murphy can read minds.

There’s no other way to explain it, and there’s nothing else to say about it, either.

**VIII.**

He learns how to choose which minds he wants to hear. This is good, this is helpful, this is a curse. Now, he gets to choose which privacies to invade because the temptation is too strong for someone as weak-willed as John.

Not when it comes to her, though. She always finds a way through.

At least, she does today, as John walks into their poor room in the poor hallway to find her slumped over, empty bottles on the floor, empty soul in her chest. He starts putting away the bottles, as he always does, until -

“You killed your father.” _And I should have killed him years ago._

The words are still smooth but they ache. There are no more crevices for her sticky sweet honey to fill but it keeps pushing and pushing and breaking -

It ceases, and she is gone, and yet, he feels nothing.

**IX.**

John was fearless, curious, wondrous, tremendously idiotic.

Murphy is terrified, withdrawn, dull, tremendously cruel.

Nobody expects much from a name like Murphy. It is easier to be Murphy, and so, he is.

Nobody is surprised when Murphy disappears from the poor hallway and reappears in a cell. Murphy’s even less surprised when he finds John Mbege there as well, who also gave up the name John.

Commitment’s a bitch.

**X.**

It doesn’t happen by need, but rather, Bellamy’s choice.

Murphy’s guard status is ranked as low, or, ‘non-threatening’ - maybe because he’s a pasty white kid that never moves - but as a result, the new guard gets assigned to his case.

He’s a young raven-haired kid who looks even more naive than most of the guards, wide eyes searching every inch of the area. He holds his gun at a perfect angle. There is not a scratch on his uniform.

The temptation is too much to bare. Though Murphy can only see the new guard through the small window on his cell door, he opens his mind to the words.

_Just don’t look at him, just don’t look at him, just don’t look at him…_

The words, much like Mbege’s, are clean and untainted. They feel like running water, cleansing his mind, purifying his own thoughts. It’s obvious that Murphy is the “him” in question but why can’t -

_It just figures, the first real assignment I get and he’s hot as fuck._

“You’re a walking stereotype!” Murphy yells before his low self-control can make up a reason for him not to.

The guard stops and slowly turns, walking to the cell door so he’s right next to it. “What?”

Murphy just laughs, searching for a real personality inside his wide brown eyes. “A nervous guard obsessed with his newest criminal? It’s been done a thousand times.” He has no right to be this confident, and yet…

“I’m not-”

“It’s all over your….body language.”

The guard swallows, and then nervously checks his surroundings one more time. When he’s finally finished, he unlocks the door and slips inside, quickly closing it. “Look, I-”

“I don’t really care,” Murphy says.

“My name is Bellamy. Bellamy Blake.”

“I’m Murphy.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow, gathering some of his courage. “Just Murphy? I thought it was J-”

“Just Murphy.”

“Alright.”

A pause. “Are we going to do this, or not?”

Bellamy takes a step. “I didn’t...only if you’re comfortable.”

“Are you?” Murphy asks.

“I think so,” Bellamy says, but he also says, _Now I am._

It’s enough.

**XI.**

Murphy and Bellamy meet whenever they can, for as long as they can, but it’s nothing serious - at least, not yet. Maybe it would have been, if Murphy wasn’t currently hurtling to the Earth with ninety-nine other teenagers.

For a moment, his concentration drops, and the words slam into his brain-

_Why is this happening to me_

_I think that kid’s dead oh my god_

_This is not what I meant when I said I wanted to be floated-_

It’s too much. His vision fails him, and then the rest of him does.

He doesn’t quite recover until the dropship crashes into the ground, his vision shooting back, his concentration holding to keep out the tides of thoughts that ravage his mind.

It’s then that he sees him. Bellamy Blake, standing only a few rows over, eyes searching his surroundings, as if, as if he’s looking for someone -

It can’t be -

But what if he did?

He didn’t. A girl younger than him jumps into his arms, shouting his name, and it’s then that Murphy doesn’t have to use his ability to know the truth.

Bellamy did not board the dropship for him. Nobody did.

**XII.**

Just before the mob hangs him, he hears one small trail of words -

_It was me. I killed Wells._

He knows exactly who they come from, and if he said something now, he’s sure that evidence would come up and his life would be saved.

Murphy says nothing at all. Charlotte doesn’t live long regardless. It’s a pity, but not a shame.

**XIII.**

He shoots Raven but not because -

No, he would never, it was an accident -

He could never do that on purpose and oh fuck it wasn’t -

Please, Bellamy, please understand that -

Bellamy doesn’t understand. It’s not his fault that he can’t read minds.  

**IVX.**

He follows Jaha. He meets Emori. It’s the one good thing to come out of the trip.

“John,” she says, softly, one night when they lie next to each other. Stars shine above their heads.

“Mmhm.” She’s the only one who gets to call him that, who makes him feel brave once more.

“There is something I would like to ask you.”

He’s not that brave. The walls lower, and her strong but caressing thoughts enter his mind. _I would like to kiss you._

“Emori, I...I think I know what you’re going to ask, and I - can’t.”

Her eyes return to the sky. “I see.” _I am a fool._

Murphy thinks for a long time about this answer. He knows he loves Emori, but it’s different with her - it’s the love of a best friend, of a confidant, of more than an ally but less than a lover.

In the end, he tells her just that, and she nods. His eyes return to the sky as well.

**XV.**

The elevator is tight - it gets even more crowded with the dead body of the Grounder attacker - but somehow, Bellamy’s presence does not crowd his thoughts.

“I understand why you left,” Bellamy says. “I just - I wasn’t sure if you were okay.” _I missed him, fuck, I missed having him around, I think._

Murphy nods. “That’s good, but I always intended to come back, you know.” It’s a lie. Bellamy doesn’t need to know.

 _Did he want to come back for me?_ “Oh. Alright.”

“Alright.”

A pause, and then -

_I failed him._

Pause.

_I will not fail him again._

**XVI.**

The radiation is going to kill them all.

It already killed Murphy’s mind long, long ago.

Besides, he’s not too sure about the effects of radiation on honey, but he’s sure that it doesn’t clear it up much.

**XVII.**

“We have a cure, but we need to test it on someone.”

Instinctively, Murphy places a hand on Emori’s shoulder and pushes her back slightly, away from Abby’s glaring gaze. Nobody speaks.

Abby continues. “It has to be somebody here, because of necessity. It has to be somebody relatively healthy and in average condition, to simulate the best conditions. And, well...it has to be…”  _Someone expendable._

“This can’t be the way,” Clarke says, causing mother and daughter to start fighting, but Murphy tunes them out quickly. Instead, he becomes Bellamy, and searches the room.

It couldn’t be Abby or Raven, as they were dying. It couldn’t be Jackson, as he would be the only doctor left. It couldn’t be Clarke, because...well, she was _Clarke._ It couldn’t be Roan, as the Grounders would be led by Echo and so - and so -

He will not let it be Emori or Bellamy. That leaves - that leaves -

“Strap me in, doc,” he says, quietly, and then louder. The commotion stops.

 _I don’t want to do this to him but-_ Abby thinks.

 _I never took Murphy for the self-sacrificing type-_ Clarke thinks.

 _I will not fail him again-_ Bellamy thinks.

“Not a chance-”

Abby has already agreed.

**XVIII.**

Some people on Old Earth thought that radiation gradually weakened the flesh. Some thought it strengthened the body and mind. Some thought it created clear, water-like puddles.

They were all wrong.

Murphy can’t describe the way the radiation felt, because he doesn’t remember it. He remembers an initial burning pain and then a stabbing pain and then a pain that overtook his entire body and then -

He remembers Bellamy’s words washing over him, cleansing him. _Hold on_ , they screamed. _Hold on hold on hold on hold on hold on hold on!_

And he does. _Hold on,_ Murphy thinks. _Hold on, hold on, just hold on -_

In an instant, their thoughts become one.

Murphy finally knows what his words sound like.

**XIX.**

Bellamy lies at his side, but Murphy’s eyes find the stars.

“Murphy, you’re incredible,” Bellamy says, after a kiss. _I hope I didn’t fail him._

“So are you.” _I heard you._

A pause, but this time, there is love in it.

“You saved the world, Murphy.” _I didn’t fail you._

A pause, a kiss, and then -

“Call me John.”

**Author's Note:**

> let's play: spot the wizard of oz reference!
> 
> as always, i'm on tumblr @kirayukimrua and twitter @kiraayukimrua so hmu i'm v lonely :)
> 
> thanks for the read, hope it wasn't trash (it was but), kudos/comments keep me from crying too much


End file.
